


Whiteout

by Anne_Fairchild



Series: Still Waters [1]
Category: Grantchester (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comfort Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Possibly could be construed as non-con at a stretch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 11:48:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14378016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anne_Fairchild/pseuds/Anne_Fairchild
Summary: Amanda is gone, Sidney is lonely. He comes across the scene of an accident during a winter storm. Memories are engaged and actions taken that may have consequences.





	Whiteout

**Author's Note:**

> This fic grew out of a fascination with the beautiful young actor Lorne MacFadyen, as well as wanting to know more about newly-promoted DS Phil Wilkinson’s private life. Two gorgeous young men helping each other in their own way. There will be a sequel.

 

It was something of a minor miracle that Sidney came across him at all. On foot rather than having taken the bicycle because of the snow, he’d expected to be home while it was much lighter out. Still, he couldn’t refuse to stay with the recent widow longer than he’d planned, snow or no snow. Now it was almost dark and he only had a torch to light his way. At least Mrs C wouldn’t be fussing at his lateness, or Leonard. Both were away for the weekend - a singularly unusual occurrence and one Mrs C was most unhappy about. Sidney had been afraid she would guilt Leonard into missing his church conference but in the end she considered that it might be allowed, just this once, to leave Sidney on his own. What she thought he needed protecting from, Sidney never asked. He and Leonard both loved her for caring, though.

He saw the car first - one he recognized as an unmarked police car by having seen the licence plate at the station. His heart sped up at the fear it might be Geordie. When he reached it, the driver’s door was ajar and the car empty. He shone the light near, and faintly made out a disturbance in the snow, larger than footprints. As the beam of the torch followed the marks, he saw smudges of red-brown in the snow. Finally, he made out the shape of a body some yards ahead. He knelt to turn it over, and saw the very pale, still face of DS Phil Wilkinson, half covered in clotted, frozen blood. He quickly felt for a pulse. It was faint and hard to catch, but it was there. Still, the man might be dead of exposure if he wasn’t warmed up very soon.

Sidney got back to the car as quickly as he could through the knee-deep snow. The key was not in the ignition, but when he looked down with the torch, he saw it on the running board. Snatching it up, he put it in the ignition and turned it, praying, as he had no idea if the car was out of gas, disabled, or why Phil had left it.

After a bit of grind because of the extreme cold, the engine caught and Sidney sighed in relief. He made sure all the windows were tight shut, and turned the heater on High. He then clambered back to Wilkinson and tried to lift him, but the man was taller than he was and just as sturdily built, and could not be roused. In the end Sidney more or less dragged him through the snow back to the car and wrestled him into the passenger seat, panting with the effort.

He drove slowly and carefully back to the vicarage, mindful of the road condition and aware he couldn’t afford any delays. Sidney pulled the car round to the back, close to the door, and dug out his key. He lit the stove with shaking fingers and poured water into a clean pot Mrs C had left sitting on the stove. To get the still unconscious detective inside, this time Sidney decided to hoist him over his shoulder and move him into the small bedroom next to his study. The room wasn’t much used, but it would save an awkward, difficult trip upstairs.

After he lay Phil on the bed, he brought the paraffin heater from the study and lit it, setting it at an angle that would warm as much of the room as possible. The young man was still like ice, soaked, and unmoving. Sidney took off his coat and shoes and surrounded him with blankets before going back to check on the water. By the time he brought some hot water and clean rags back, it was warm enough in the room for him to take off his own sweater.

Worried about frostbite, Sidney gently wrapped wrung-out hot cloths around Wilkinson’s hands and feet and slipped them back under the blankets. Placing his fingers at the detective’s carotid, he was relieved to find his pulse slightly stronger, if still erratic. Now, perhaps he could clean him up a bit and determine if he was seriously injured.

At first he just lay a hot cloth over Phil’s face to let the heat sink in and soften the blood and scabs. Once the cloth began to cool, he removed it and used another to work at the dried blood as gently as he could. Phil remained unconscious, but grimaced faintly in response to Sidney’s ministrations. There were two sources of blood - a fairly superficial gash at the front of his scalp that had bled quite a bit, and scattered deep scratches and punctures on his face, neck and hands, as if he’d fallen into a thorn bush or hedge. Sidney left the blood on the gash still clotted; it would probably require a stitch or two, and no sense getting it bleeding again until he saw a doctor.

He pulled the covers back to put fresh hot cloths on hands and feet, and noticed a few more of the scratches on Phil’s neck, and bloodstains on his shirt indicating there were some on his torso. Sidney didn’t recall any particular hedges in the area off the lane where he’d found the police car, so it didn’t seem likely he’d stumbled through one after he left the car - and why had he left the car? It was all rather odd.

Sidney went into the hall to call the doctor, and the police station in case they had noticed Wilkinson or the car missing. To his dismay, he heard only dead air; the lines were down due to the storm. He couldn’t get any help.

The young man was slowly coming to consciousness when Sidney returned, moving restlessly under the covers. Sidney pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed. The room was hot enough now that he was sweating. He pulled back the covers and took the warm wraps away from Wilkinson’s extremities after determining that he did seem to be warming and that some color was returning to his hands and feet.

“Phil? Phil, can you hear me? It’s Sidney Chambers.” Phil blinked for a moment or two, but his eyes didn’t stay open or really attempt to focus. Sidney got up and went into his study. He picked up the whisky and a glass, carried it back to the bedroom, poured himself some and downed it. When he was done he started to unbutton Wilkinson’s blood-spattered shirt, easing him out of it carefully.

The young man’s eyes did open then. He looked down at the angry marks on his chest for a moment as if trying to remember how they got there. Then it seemed that perhaps he remembered, because his eyes suddenly shut tight and he went still. Sidney continued on as if he hadn’t noticed, gently cleaning blood away. The marks were pretty inflamed; they must hurt him even in his half-conscious state.

Pouring more whisky, Sidney lifted Phil’s head and put the glass to his lips.

“This should help a little,” he encouraged. To his surprise, Wilkinson gulped the liquor quickly, raising a hand to grasp at the glass. “Easy, not too fast,” Sidney warned. He let Phil’s head fall back on the pillow and went in search of Mrs C’s medicine chest, which she kept in the pantry/old stillroom. Searching carefully through it - she would definitely know if anyone had so much as touched it - he found the aspirin and a tin of salve she’d used on his and Leonard’s hands when they had blisters from digging in the garden.

Sidney poured enough liquor into the glass to wash the pills down and tipped two into his palm. “Aspirin,” he told Phil, raising his head again and administering the whisky. Wilkinson swallowed obediently, his head heavy In Sidney’s hand. He’d really had the stuffing knocked out of him and could be brewing up an infection. The gash on his head gave rise to the thought of concussion as well.

“I hope this helps,” Sidney told him softly, applying the salve everywhere there was one of the nasty inflamed thorn marks. In a few minutes, when he’d finished, Phil seemed to be resting more quietly. Sidney pulled the covers up to his chin, then went to feed Dickens, change his clothes, and turn some lights on in the rest of the house.

He returned to find Phil asleep, or at least giving the appearance of it. He poured himself a good strong wallop of whisky, picked up a random book from the shelf and sat in the chair beside the bed, alternately sipping and nursing the drink. The book, however, became nothing more than a prop as his own eyes kept drifting shut.

 

                                                                       ***

 

At first Sidney thought that Dickens, sitting patiently in the doorway, whimpering occasionally, had awakened him. But after sitting up and coming to a more wakeful state he realized that Phil was now tossing about, and there was a light sheen of sweat on his face and neck; the fever Sidney had been worried about.

His forehead was certainly warm, but not alarmingly so. At Sidney’s touch, however, Phil half sat up and began muttering. He looked at Sidney, but Sidney wasn’t sure whether the detective knew him or not. The words he spoke were the kind of nonsense that someone in a dream state or nightmare might utter - the sounds were almost speech, but yet they weren’t.

Phil reached out and put his hand on Sidney’s shoulder, trying to pull Sidney down to him, or beside him. The tone of his almost-speech was quiet and urgent to pleading. What did he want, and who was he speaking to?

“Phil?” When he spoke, the hand grip became stronger and caused Sidney to lose his balance. He fell back next to Phil, half on and half off the bed. As soon as he did, Phil’s head came to rest on his chest and Phil’s free arm pulled him closer. The young man continued to murmur unintelligibly against Sidney’s chest. Not knowing what else to do, Sidney moved himself onto the bed. As soon as he did, Phil sighed and relaxed again, nestling tightly into Sidney’s side.

The feel and weight of the other man’s sweat-damp body curled so close against him took Sidney’s mind back. Most of his war memories were either sad or frightening, but not all of them were. There was comradeship and affection, desperation and yes, love and other feelings that Sidney couldn’t put a name to at the time, and still couldn’t. He was most definitely drawn to women, but there had been times he was drawn to other men. How simple, and how convenient, to have forgotten that.

Sidney wasn’t normally suspicious of the motives of others, unless they gave him reason to be, but he was unsure what was happening. Was Phil aware of him, or not? In his dream state was he cuddled up with his wife, a one-night stand, or another man? That was a very strange thought, considering DS Wilkinson never missed a chance to slur, slander or direct cruelty towards homosexuals, like most the rest of the Cambridge police force or the village of Grantchester. Was this some sly way to ‘test’ him? Wilkinson was undoubtedly aware of Leonard’s preferences, and most likely Leonard’s friendship/relationship with Daniel Marlowe.

Was he trying to find out whether Sidney was also homosexual, or guess at what he imagined his relationship with Leonard might be? Or even his relationship with Geordie? It was an unnerving thought. Considering the afternoon’s events, though, unless a very devious mind was at work laying a trap, would know where he’d gone today and lay in wait, Wilkinson seemed a more direct type, if past history was anything to go by.

Phil whimpered faintly, and in reflex Sidney stroked his shoulder and brushed a hand softly over his hair. One thing that had served him well all his life was his instinct. He wouldn’t ignore it now.

“Stay.” The first recognizable word. “Please?” Phil moved closer and rolled slightly. What Sidney felt against his hip made him start, and answered at least some of his questions.

“Shhh,” he soothed. “Yes, I’ll stay.”

_What the hell am I doing? What would Geordie think?_

Oh, he knew what Geordie would think - and say, and do. But Sidney, being Sidney, couldn’t just walk away, figuratively speaking. He was drawn to the wounded, the needy, those who walked alone and in fear; those who needed him. No matter what Geordie’s reaction would be, Sidney couldn’t change that about himself. It was who he was. It was why he’d stayed with the Church and let Amanda and Grace go. And he would let Geordie go too if it came to that, which he hoped it never would. Losing Geordie’s friendship just might be worse than losing Amanda.

“Scared.” The soft admission hung in the air.

“It’s all right to be scared,” Sidney replied, his voice just above a whisper. “Sometimes I’m scared too.” Not so much about this perhaps, but everyone had their own fears.

“You’re warm. I’m so cold.” Phil’s voice broke. With a sigh of inevitability, Sidney moved to pull the blankets over both of them, turning towards the younger man and pulling him into his arms, Phil’s head tucked under his chin.

“Go to sleep,” Sidney urged.

“Cold,” Phil breathed, moving to entwine himself with Sidney.

_Well, what did you imagine might happen? You’ve asked for this, Sidney Chambers._

Cautiously, Phil raised his head, eyes closed, and timidly brushed his lips against Sidney’s. The advance was shy, but Sidney felt the eagerness that thrummed through the younger man. Sidney returned the half-kiss with a more adult version, nibbling at soft, sweet lips that parted to admit him.

When their tongues met, Sidney felt Phil’s groan from head to toe. It fully woke, in a way that his brotherly talks with Leonard had not, his long-buried feelings. He could tell himself that this was something Phil needed, as clearly it was, but it was also something that he, Sidney, vicar of Grantchester, wanted, and maybe needed too.

Geordie would say he was over-analyzing things again. Drink, lie to himself, or over-analyze, that’s how he’d spent his life since the War. But there were times that _doing_ reared up before him. He usually resisted, though he hadn’t resisted Amanda. He rarely resisted those whose paths were totally clear to them, people who knew what they wanted, like Geordie and Amanda. He was content to follow in their wake or just support them. Those times when someone needed him, however - when they were lost or struggling, needed help or affection, he put all his doubts aside and lived entirely in the moment, leaving the consequences to God.

Soft noises of need escaped from Phil. He pressed his groin against Sidney’s, but he seemed to want to continue the kissing as much as initiate sex. Phil’s actions also didn’t indicate much experience; he was willing and able, but nervy and shy. This gave Sidney pause; if _he_ were to take the lead, he couldn’t just wipe his conscience clean of responsibility afterwards. And what about ‘afterwards?’ He still didn’t know If Phil was himself or not, awake and aware, or suffering the consequences of fever or concussion. What was plain was that aware or not, whether he later remembered it or not, Phil’s body was asking for something he wanted, and Sidney wanted.

 _The moment. Live in the moment, Sidney_.

Known or unknown, he was being offered something that might easily be wasted on another, scorned or ridiculed, or cruelly used. He wondered anew at the source of Phil’s injuries. Well, he would cause no injury, he told himself.

“It’s all right,” he assured Wilkinson, lowering his mouth and kissing him deeply, gently, again and again until both were gasping for air, then hard, then teasing, and soft again. Gasps, groans and even a chuckle or two erupted uncontrolled from the beautiful sweet mouth, bright pink from the intensity of Sidney’s kisses.

“Let’s not rush,” Sidney purred in Phil’s ear, putting eager arms gently at his sides. Phil whined a protest, but it soon cut off as Sidney slipped his trousers and pants down over his hips and off, freeing him. He allowed Phil to undress him, slowing him, becoming harder by the minute under awkward but enthusiastic hands.

Having no idea what his partner’s experience was, Sidney couldn’t assume anything about what he might expect or what might give him pleasure. He didn’t want to frighten Phil or make him feel pushed to do anything he wasn’t ready for. Selfish enough and self-aware enough that he wanted release and definitely didn’t want to resort to bringing himself off, he pressed Phil onto his back and began a slow journey with hands and mouth over forehead, eyelids, nose, mouth, chin; wrists, fingers, the bend of an elbow, the dip of flesh at the shoulder. Then collarbone, chest, abdomen and stomach, before he turned his attention to Phil’s very eager cock. Sidney had his partner squirming with need in minutes, desperate for release. In truth, his responsiveness to Sidney’s touch sent another long-forgotten thrill down the vicar’s spine.

He covered Phil’s body with his own, pressing sex against sex. Phil gasped, and did what pure instinct directed. At that point, Sidney stopped thinking for either of them and let go, rolling, rocking, grinding, intent only on release.

Phil’s arms came around his back as he responded, holding tight. In minutes his back arched and he cried out, letting go. Sidney all too quickly felt sweet, sticky warmth against his cock and belly. The sensation of it and the still-trembling body beneath him propelled him. He tried to let it take him slowly, savoring the sensations and sounds so different than making love with a woman. He wrapped himself hard around Phil, biting an earlobe, a shoulder, inhaling the scent of him and the sex in the room until it overwhelmed him and he came forcefully and noisily.

He had little idea how many minutes passed before the cold roused him. He stood up slowly and turned the paraffin heater on. Phil lay on his back, unmoving, in what he hoped was a healing sleep. He was, Sidney realized, a beautiful man, and he spent a moment just taking him all in. Taller than himself, only slightly slimmer, with an athlete’s trim muscles. Skin of typically English paleness, accented by pink cheeks and lips, the cheeks highlighted with visible dimples when he smiled. He looked so different when he smiled - younger, kinder. Perhaps that was why he made sure not to smile on the job; it made him look as vulnerable and young as he was. Not that he could be that many years younger than Sidney, but young enough to have not been In the War, which inferred a particular innocence that at least two generations had lost en masse.

Under more ordinary circumstances, such as knowing that your partner recognized you and chose to be with you, Sidney would have just crawled back into bed, covered up and snuggled for another few hours, and had sex again…and maybe again. Of course, he didn’t dare do that, so he went into the bathroom and cleaned himself, reluctantly washing away the heady scent of the both of them. Then he went back and did the same for the sleeping Phil, putting his pants back on as well as his trousers and vest, and fixing the bedclothes.

Sidney went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. It would be breaking dawn in another couple of hours. He lavished pats and attention on Dickens while he waited for the water to boil. When it was ready he made his tea and took it back to the bedroom. Once more he sat in the chair. Looking at the sleeping man, Sidney wondered if his decision would rear up and bite him squarely on the bum. He could hope not, but what was done was done in any case.

 

                                                                                ***

 

When he woke it was half past seven, with pale blue sky visible through the window. It wasn’t snowing any more, and the trees were still. Phil was still asleep, and still feverish. Sidney waited half an hour before he attempted to wake him. He got a glass of water and two more aspirin, set them on the table, and put a hand out to squeeze Phil’s shoulder gently. It took a moment to rouse him. Finally, he blinked and opened his eyes, frowning.

“Where - ?”

“At the rectory. You had a motor accident. You’ve had a good bang on the head.” Sidney told him.

“When?” Phil struggled to sit up, wincing.

“Since about half past five yesterday. The storm took down the phone lines, or I would have let them know at the station and got you a doctor. I’m going to try again in a minute. How’s your head?”

“It hurts,” Phil answered, cautiously trying to move. Sidney could see him taking inventory of his pains. Nothing seemed so far to trigger memories of the previous night - at least, that he was letting on.

“Bloody hell,” he groaned, hands to his head.

“Here, take these, and I’ll get you some tea. Don’t try to get up on your own, you might have concussion,” Sidney advised, putting the aspirin in one hand and the glass of water in the other.

He went into the kitchen to put the kettle on again and let Dickens out into the garden. He’d have to remember to clean up after the dog later or Mrs C would never let him hear the end of it. Gardens were for flowers or veg, and you took dogs for walks far away from gardens.

He brought the tea and set it on the table next to Phil, who had laid back down on the bed, pale and shaking.

“Take it easy. You’ve been knocked about and were nearly frozen when I found you,” Sidney told him, doubling a pillow behind his head. He held the cup to Phil’s lips until several sips of the hot, sweet liquid were inside him.

“Feel like I’m underwater,” Phil mumbled. “Can’t make my body do what I want. You found me?”

“Off the lane that leads to Lowe’s Farm and the Crandalls’. Mr. Crandall passed away two weeks ago and I had gone to visit with Mrs. Crandall. I was late walking back, and saw the police car with no one in it, but tracks in the snow. I found you about 50 or so yards from the car,” Sidney related, “unconscious and bleeding. Good thing the car started or I don’t know how I would have got you back here.”

Phil frowned in concentration, trying to remember. “I drove off the road? Hit something?” he puzzled.

“I’m…not sure,” Sidney told him. “The car was just off the road, and you’d gotten out, but didn’t make it far before you lost consciousness.”

“I don’t remember,” Phil frowned and shook his head, stopping with a groan.

“That’s not surprising. I’m sure they’ll want to take radiographs of your head after that knock, and probably stitches. I’d better try the phone.”

Sidney left him to finish his tea. First he called the local doctor, Craigie, whose wife told Sidney he was out. She suggested he call an ambulance to the vicarage under the circumstances as she wasn’t sure when her husband would be back, and he would likely send for one anyway. He dialed the number she’d given him and made arrangements for them to come within the hour.

He then dialed Geordie’s number, and asked him if anyone had reported Phil or the car missing. No, his wife had not reported him missing, which gave Geordie the opportunity for a snide crack as to her probably not missing him at all and good riddance. Sidney then told him what had happened, that the car was at the vicarage and that Phil would soon be on his way to hospital.

“He’s injured, Geordie, and he doesn’t remember what happened. Don’t give him a hard time. I know he’s not your favorite person right now, but give him a chance at least. Let him heal and start fresh, both of you. He wants to please you.”

“He bloody well should.”

“Geordie - “

“All right, all right. Leave it to me,” Geordie grudgingly agreed. “I’ll phone his missus, and get someone out there for the car.”

When he returned to the bedroom, Phil was fumbling with his shirt, and Sidney helped him on with it. Phil could hardly have failed to notice the now-dried blood, or his wounds, but said nothing about either. He seemed to be trying hard to piece things together, but his worried face told Sidney it wasn’t working. He didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry.

By the time the ambulance men arrived, Phil had two cups of very strong sweet tea inside him and his color was better, if his coordination and ability to move under his own power were not. He didn’t even protest when they wanted him to lie on the gurney instead of walking outside. Before they took him away, he reached a hand up to Sidney.

“Thanks for what you did.” Sidney’s heart skipped a beat. “Getting me back here and all that.”

“Of course. I’ll check up on you later,” Sidney assured him. Only, he didn’t, at least in person. He learned from Geordie that Phil was in hospital for a couple of days and was then discharged home for a week’s leave. He still couldn’t remember anything that had happened from the morning of the accident until he’d awakened at the vicarage the next morning. The doctors weren’t surprised, Geordie said. He might remember some of it eventually, all of it, or none of it; too soon to tell.

Geordie volunteered, without too much satisfaction, that it seemed Phil’s wife had now left him and maybe that had something to do with the accident and his memory. The next time he saw Geordie with Phil on an investigation, the detective thanked him again, politely and formally, for his help after the accident. Sidney couldn’t be sure that he really saw a quick pink flush rise to the man’s cheeks when Phil looked at him; it could just be his own conscience.

Whatever Phil could or couldn’t remember, Sidney had no regrets.

 

 

 


End file.
